The New World
by pacejunkie
Summary: Postrescue. Charlie and Claire begin new lives in Los Angeles, but supporting a family in the real world is more difficult than they thought. Flangst.


**Title:** The New World

**Rating:** PG-13/T

**Summary:** Post-rescue. Charlie and Claire begin new lives in Los Angeles, but supporting a family in the real world is more difficult than they thought. Flangst.

**Warnings:** Drug Use

**Word Count:** 5393

**Disclaimer:** I didn't own Charlie and Claire on the island, and I don't own them off it.

**Author's Note:** Written for the cccontests challenge for an off island fic.

It was larger than a bamboo tent. It had four walls, a locking front door, electricity, hot and cold running water and a good, solid roof; so Claire didn't know why it seemed so shabby. For two years they had lived like beach bums, no better than the homeless do in cardboard boxes, their belongings in shopping carts. But they both felt it. When Charlie and Claire, holding Aaron's hand, stood at the threshold of their new Los Angeles flat, they both gave a heavy sigh. It wasn't quite what they had expected.

"Home Sweet Home," joked Charlie in a deadened tone that had an undercurrent of shock. Just inside the door he dropped the two bags that contained everything they owned.

The sample apartment they had been shown looked nothing like this. This one had peeling paint, cracked floorboards and a stained ceiling that neither wanted to know the source of. The air smelled of a mixture of at least three neighbours' mystery stews combined with something more akin to Aaron's diapers. The main room was lit by a single bare bulb. An efficiency kitchenette with two burners, a tiny oven and a portable refrigerator stood off to the side. Attached was a bedroom that Claire first mistook for their closet.

"Its fine, Charlie," she told him after she had looked around.

She sensed his disappointment and didn't want him to think she wasn't pleased. Without Charlie, Claire didn't know where she and Aaron might have ended up, either on the island or now. He had been there for her more times than she could count. When Claire had told him one day that they would get through their troubles together, she had meant it for life.

Charlie was still silent, surveying the bare living room as if expecting it to transform. They could only afford the first and last months' rent and it was the only apartment that didn't require a security deposit. Now they knew why. Claire went over to him and took his hand.

"It's temporary," she assured him. "We'll get jobs and we'll find a better place as soon as our lease is up on this one." When he didn't respond she added, "I can paint."

Charlie nodded, coming out of his trance.

"Aaron seems to like it," he noted with a small chuckle, indicating the child that was now running around the empty room in circles, chasing an imaginary playmate. His blond hair flopped this way and that, framing his ruddy cheeks.

Claire laughed and scooped Aaron up, "That's because he knows what matters," she said in a playful tone, tickling the boy's tummy as he giggled. "Love and family. We survived for two years on nothing. Compared to our shack on the beach this place is the Taj Mahal."

Charlie smiled and took the both of them in his arms. "You know I love you both?" he asked.

She kissed him lightly. "I know," she said.

Oceanic Airlines entered into a class action settlement with all of the surviving passengers. After the lawyers were paid, Charlie and Claire hoped to one day receive a hefty sum, but they were warned it could take several months or longer for a cheque to appear. In the meantime, they would have to find their way, which meant finding employment fast.

Although Charlie had insisted that he would support her, Claire wanted to help. She set out the first day seeking a job as a day care provider, which was the only job she knew of where she could bring Aaron, but she quickly learned that every other single mother in Los Angeles had the same idea. There were no openings anywhere.

Charlie in the meantime, swallowed his pride and accepted a job loading crates in a warehouse by day, while he went to clubs and bars looking for music jobs at night. Although he had at one point hoped that his mysterious disappearance had sparked new interest in Driveshaft, stoking the flames for his comeback, instead he found that in his absence he and his band had only sunk deeper into obscurity. It was as if he had never existed, and Charlie walked out of each establishment more incredulous each time he was asked who the hell Driveshaft was.

"I can get a job as a waitress," Claire suggested one night over the fourth spaghetti dinner that week. "They do quite well with tips."

Charlie shook his head, "We can't afford childcare," he said, "and after all we've been through would you really feel comfortable leaving Aaron with a stranger anyway?"

"No, I guess not," she said, "but I want to help."

"I know you do," he said, "but I'll figure something out. I've been writing again. I've had to start all over but eventually I'll get some gigs. The warehouse job may not pay that well but at least we've got healthcare. Sodding American system. Maybe we should have gone to England after all."

"You were trying to get away from that life," she reminded him. "This was our chance to start fresh."

Charlie didn't need Claire to explain what she meant by 'that life.' He had wanted to take his family to a place where no one had known Charlie Pace as a junkie. He didn't want to run into anyone from his old life ever again.

"We could have gone to Australia," he said.

"There's nothing for us there," Claire replied, as though they hadn't had the conversation countless times.

After Charlie and Liam's tearful reunion in Sydney, it soon became clear by his discomfort that Liam had left no room in his life for a brother returned from the dead and his new family. As for Claire, not long after she had been presumed dead in the crash of 815, her Aunt Lindsay finally had the life support taken off of Claire's mother. She was dead three days later. Claire was more sad than angry when she was told; she realized it must have been a difficult decision. Despite their rocky relationship, Claire knew that Lindsay loved her sister and must have been in at least some despair over losing her niece as well.

"You're not the only one that wants a fresh start," Claire said.

"C'mon man, give me a chance," pleaded Charlie to the club owner. "Have you never heard of Driveshaft? We had a gold record."

"Sorry," he said, concentration focused on his paperwork in front of him. "If that was more than five years ago, you're going to have to get in line with every other guy with a guitar whose convinced he's the second coming of Cobain. Leave your number, I'll call you."

"If you would just hear me play…" Charlie started.

"Look," said the owner, slamming his pen down on the bar. "I told you we don't need any new acts. I got a waiting list a mile long…"

"Excuse me," said a man, leaning over the bar and into Charlie's conversation. He was in his mid thirties and dressed in a fashionable striped shirt and trousers. "I don't mean to interrupt, but did you say you were in _Driveshaft_?"

"I played bass," said Charlie, "I wrote _You All Everybody_."

The man smiled in surprise and extended his hand, "You must be Charlie Pace. It's an honour to meet you. I'm Luke Anderson. I manage some of the bands that play here. Just give me a second."

Luke stepped between Charlie and the club owner and began speaking on his behalf. "Listen Bruce, I know this guy. He and his band, they were great. Trust me on this. You're going to want to book him."

Bruce peered over Luke's shoulder and looked Charlie up and down. Charlie shifted uncomfortably, feeling like a piece a meat at the market.

Finally, the owner said, "All right Luke. I'm taking him on your word. No one ever wants to play weeknights, we can use him them." He looked at Charlie again, "I'll pay you $100 for three nights, four hours each night in two sets. You better have enough material."

Charlie reached over to shake Bruce's hand. "Thanks mate, you won't regret it."

The owner shook his head as though he regretted it already and walked away.

Charlie turned to his saviour. "You're a lifesaver. That was bloody brilliant. Can I buy you a drink?"

While Charlie worked at his warehouse job, Claire busied herself with the apartment. She scoured yard sales for serviceable furniture, and even found a small television that someone had been throwing away. From the half price bin of rejected colours at the paint store, she selected a pleasant golden yellow. It reminded her of a sunrise and she liked it so much she bought enough to paint the living room. Halfway done, with Aaron playing in a sectioned off corner with some yard sale toys she purchased for loose change, the place was looking more cheerful by the hour. She couldn't wait for Charlie to see it.

Claire finished the room and stood back to admire the one large wall, wondering if she should pick up some extra colours to paint a mural. She was still considering her handiwork when she heard the key in the lock.

"Chorry's home," he said upon entering, to which Aaron raised his hands and replied, "Chorry!"

It had become a game that they played. Charlie was endlessly tickled at Aaron's response and the positive reinforcement gave him the incentive to repeat it each day. Claire laughed every time; it never ceased to be endearing.

Charlie swept by Aaron's corner and picked the boy up before he burst. Then he went over to Claire and gave her a kiss.

"Wow," he said, admiring the walls when he was done greeting them. "Nice."

"Do you really like it?" asked Claire. "Most of the discounted colours are horrible, but I thought I got lucky with this one."

"Yeah, it's great," he said. "It makes the room look bigger."

After Charlie had a quick shower and change they had dinner and then Charlie packed up his guitar. It was the last of the three night gigs that Luke had procured for him. For three days, Charlie came home from work, changed, ate, went off to the club to play until midnight and then came back to the flat to sleep and do it all over again. The crowd at the club was small on a weeknight, but he was using it as an opportunity to get back into performing shape. Two years was a long time to be out of the business, and it had been a while before then since he had played in front of an audience. Although he hated admitting it to himself, he was rusty and not quite ready for a Saturday night crowd.

"I've been trying to write some new songs when I can," he told Claire. "Luke said he'd be able to get me more gigs after this one. It might even lead to a new recording contract. I told him we could use the money."

Claire wished him luck and Charlie was out the door.

Two months passed and still the settlement cheque didn't come. Charlie was still immersed in his routine although Claire could see that day by day it was beginning to wear at him. Luke was keeping him busy with weeknight jobs, but that left very little time for anything else. His spirits were still up however; in fact, Claire had never seen him happier. He was finally getting paid to do what he loved most, although he still wasn't making enough for him to quit his day job at the warehouse.

He told Claire he hated it there; most of the workers were hardened oversized longshoremen types that didn't much appreciate working alongside a small, English musician. Mostly Charlie kept his head down and got through each day, but without any friends, the days were long and taxing. Claire knew if he only had the time to look he would find another job, but he never complained.

One night, at the end of his last set of the week, Luke joined him in the dressing room with news to deliver.

"Charlie, guess what?" he began.

"I'm too tired to guess mate," said Charlie, lying on the couch with his eyes closed and a towel over his head.

"You've just been booked for a week solid at Club M," said Luke with a triumphant grin. "Who do you love?"

Charlie ripped the towel off and smiled. "You. I love you," he said, sitting up. "That club holds 500 people. How'd you do it?"

"A magician never tells his secrets," said Luke. "You start on the 5th. I hope you've been writing."

Charlie paused. "Yeah. Well, I mean I'm trying. I work ten hours at the warehouse. It's hard to find the time."

Luke sat down across from him. "You're gonna have to start making the time. You're moving up, bro." He reached into his jacket pocket and removed a small plastic bag. "I say we celebrate," he said and he tossed the heroin onto the coffee table.

Charlie looked down at it and frowned. He felt a familiar tingle in his hands and a twist in his gut. With a sigh he picked up the packet and tossed it back at Luke.

"I don't do that anymore mate," he said.

Luke caught the bag in his fist and stuffed it back in his pocket. "Sure, no problem," he said. "I didn't mean anything by it."

Charlie lay back onto the couch again. "Thanks for the booking Luke," he said, "but what I really need right now is some sleep."

The week at Club M turned into two when the club's next act backed out at the last minute. Charlie was six days into the run when it all began catching up to him. He dragged himself into the club every evening, running on adrenaline, beer and fumes to get through each night. The only time he could find to write was during his lunch break at the warehouse and the bus ride home each day, both without the benefit of his guitar, so he stayed up late to write the music to go with the lyrics. Mornings he couldn't keep his eyes open enough to do it.

Luke watched Charlie as he entered the dressing room, rubbing his eyes.

"Man, you don't look so good," he said.

"I'm just tired," said Charlie with a yawn. "I get all my inspiration at night, so I've been writing until 2 a.m. I have to get up for work at 5:30."

"You got a show to do," Luke noted. "It's a packed house."

"I'll make it," said Charlie. "I just need ten minutes."

"I think you need a little more than that," he replied, reaching into his pocket.

"Luke, I told you," said Charlie, eyes following Luke's hand, "I don't do drugs."

"Stop acting like my old aunt," said Luke. "They're not drugs. It's just a mild stimulant. It's like two cups of coffee."

Charlie took the unlabelled prescription bottle and looked at the small red pills inside. "Where'd you get these?" he asked.

"Who cares where I got them?" said Luke. "I work with bands, the schedules are grueling. They depend on me, and I depend on them. You need to get through this. It will pay off, I promise you, and then you can quit your day job. If you keep going like you're going, you'll never make it."

Charlie was still gazing at the bottle. "They're amphetamines Luke."

"I know what they are Charlie," he said, growing impatient. "They're perfectly safe. Two of those and you'll be wide awake for the next four hours. By bedtime, they'll wear off and you'll be fine."

Charlie turned the bottle over and over in his hand. He really was exhausted; but he had no choice but to go out and perform. Two cups of coffee. That didn't sound like much. Just a small kick start.

He opened the bottle and swallowed two pills.

Luke was right. That first night two little pills were all Charlie needed. It was the best night of the run to date. He felt supercharged, feeding off the energy of the audience and giving it back tenfold. The crowd loved him, and the club owner offered him an extra week booking based on that performance alone.

By midnight he came home and crashed. The pills wore off and Charlie gave himself a reprieve from songwriting for one night to catch some extra sleep. He crawled into bed next to a sleeping Claire and was out in seconds. The next day he felt fine. It was like a mini vacation.

The next night he asked Luke for two more.

After three days Charlie acclimated and resumed his late night writing sessions. By 2 a.m., he wasn't at all tired and he assumed he was still wired from another great show and energized by his muse. He found he wrote best when it was late and dark. Charlie sat on the floor with his guitar, strumming quietly, scrawling his notes on the coffee table. His pulse was racing slightly and he felt a bit jittery. He didn't think he could sleep if he tried. Finally, he forced himself to lie down at 3:30 to grab two hours before work.

The following week Charlie decided he was going to stop taking the pills. He didn't feel right keeping it from Claire and his insomnia was growing worse. The night before he had watched the clock the entire night and never shut his eyes once. He was certain that Claire would begin to notice, although up until that point she had assumed it was just stress and over exhaustion.

"Maybe you should cut back on your show schedule, Charlie," she suggested the next morning when he stumbled bleary eyed into the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee.

"I can't Claire," he said. "If I ever want to quit that bloody warehouse job it's the only way. More gigs mean more money and more attention. I'm trying to get a recording contract."

"I'm just worried about you," she pouted as she gave Aaron his milk cup.

Charlie put down his cup and put his arms around her. "I'm fine," said Charlie, quietly glad he had decided to give up the pills. "It will get better, I promise."

Two hours into his morning and Charlie was dozing off at work. Every time he closed his eyes his head would nod. He'd jerk awake and look around to see if anyone noticed. Charlie began watching the clock for his next break so he could grab fifteen minutes of rest.

He was unloading crates of produce from the back of a truck when his vision blurred. He took a wrong step and fell from the loading ramp to the pavement. As he hit the ground, the crateful of grapes he had been carrying landed on his hand. Charlie heard the snap of bones breaking and cried out. He was sent home early after a trip to the emergency room confirmed two broken fingers and a sprained wrist.

When he entered the apartment in the middle of the day without his standard greeting to Aaron, Claire turned in surprise. She dropped the picture books she was holding at the sight of Charlie's bandaged and swollen hand.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Accident at work," he said. "A crate fell on me. It's not broken. Well, my arms not anyway. Just a couple of fingers."

Claire went to the freezer for some ice and wrapped the cubes in a towel. She directed Charlie to the couch and sat alongside him, applying the ice pack gently to his swollen, blackened wrist.

"It looks awful," she said. "Does it hurt?"

"Actually yeah," he said, gritting his teeth. "They gave me a prescription for some painkiller at the doctor. I'll get it filled on the way to the gig."

Claire looked at Charlie in alarm. "You're not going to play tonight are you?"

"I have to," said Charlie. "There's a record executive coming tonight. As long as I can still hold the pick I'll be fine."

"Charlie," said Claire. "I think you've been working too hard."

"Well the good news is I'm on medical leave at the warehouse until I can work again," said Charlie. "It'll be like a holiday. There might even be some compensation in it for me."

"We don't need the money that badly, Charlie," she said. "I'd rather have you well."

"I'm just trying to look on the bright side," he muttered.

Claire smiled and put her head on his shoulder. He leaned into her, closed his eyes and promptly fell asleep.

After two hours rest Charlie felt a bit better, but his hand still throbbed. Luckily the two broken fingers weren't the ones he needed to play, but the ache was distracting. He left early to stop at the pharmacy.

The doctor at the hospital hadn't asked Charlie any questions; he took one look at his hand and wrist and wrote him a prescription for Percocet. Charlie wondered if he should say anything about the narcotic but in the end decided he would need something strong if he was going to get through his shows. He pocketed the prescription and left.

When he arrived backstage he received the same look from Luke that he had from Claire, only his manager said, "What the hell happened to you?"

"Don't worry, it's nothing," said Charlie, tearing open the prescription bag and pulling out the bottle.

"I sure hope so," said Luke, watching him. "The record execs are here, they're in the front row."

Luke reached out and swept up the bottle before Charlie could open it. "What's this?" he asked. "_Percocet_?"

Charlie grabbed it back. "It's for my hand."

Luke laughed. "And you were worried about a little speed?" he asked. "Did that doctor know you're a junkie?"

"Sod off you git," said Charlie. "_Ex_-junkie. I'm not abusing them, I need them for the pain, or do you want me to cancel tonight?"

"Do whatever you have to do Charlie," said Luke, heading for the door. "After what I went through to get these guys here tonight, if you don't play, you can kiss your career goodbye."

The door slammed shut. Charlie shook a pill from the bottle and swallowed it down.

Getting through that first night had been agony, but the Percocet helped. The record executives seemed to appreciate the circumstances and were impressed enough to promise to return another night.

Without the rest it needed, Charlie's hand took longer to heal. The swelling didn't subside for several days and the pain nagged at him. Every time he took a Percocet it went away. Two weeks later, he was still taking them, even though he had finally gone back to his job. His hand seemed much better, but each time a pill wore off, he felt worse again. So the cycle continued and Charlie didn't question it.

But Claire did.

She was picking a pair of jeans off the bedroom floor for the laundry one Sunday when the bottle fell out of the pocket. Charlie was on the couch with Aaron, entertaining the boy with his guitar.

Claire entered the living room. "Charlie, are you still taking these?"

Charlie looked at her and the bottle she held and paused. "Yeah, they're for my hand, remember?"

"But that was weeks ago," she said. "This is a narcotic, isn't it?"

"Claire, they were prescribed to me," said Charlie.

"I know, but shouldn't your hand stop hurting by now?" she asked. "You've been back at work for a week. Are you sure you still need them?"

Charlie raised his hand and flexed it. "It still aches a bit. Just another few days and I'll be done with them. Promise."

A week later Charlie's hand was completely healed but he couldn't stop taking the pills. He refilled his prescription without telling Claire, feeling slightly ashamed that he had promised her he'd stop but hadn't. The problem was, when he didn't take them he felt sick and taking another was the only thing that made him feel better. The Percocet reminded him of a mild form of heroin, but he didn't like to think of it that way. He wasn't a junkie anymore.

After two weeks off work, he couldn't risk more sick time for detox. He had already been declared fit for work by the company doctor, and Charlie feared that if he took any more time away he would lose his job.

Once he was back at work Charlie's inhuman schedule resumed -- long hours at the warehouse, long nights at the clubs, sometimes followed by two hours of songwriting at home. Once again he began losing sleep and fighting exhaustion. The gigs kept coming, and Charlie felt like he had gotten himself stuck in some enormous hamster wheel, running and spinning without end.

With so many important gigs Charlie was falling behind on original material, so his late night songwriting sessions became a nightly affair. After five days of such a routine, he was again having difficulty keeping his head up. The Percocet helped him to function, but it did nothing for his exhaustion and in fact, made him drowsier.

One night backstage, Charlie was alone in his dressing room struggling to stay awake when he spotted Luke's coat draped over a chair. He fished around in the pockets and found his bottle of uppers. He took two and washed them down with a beer. Thirty minutes later, he felt regenerated, finished another beer and went out to perform.

Near the end of the first set, Charlie began to feel strange. His heart was racing as usual with the speed but he also felt slightly heavy, like he was moving through molasses. His chest tightened, but he ignored the sensation and carried on through the final song. When he finished he put his guitar back on the stand and staggered towards the wings of the stage. Charlie barely made it backstage when his sight left him completely. He collapsed on the floor.

Luke ran to Charlie, turned him over onto his back and checked his pulse. When he had difficulty finding it he called 911. Then he called Claire and told her to meet him at the emergency room.

In her time in the apartment Claire got to know a kind old lady that lived next door. When Claire received Luke's phone call, she took Aaron there and hailed a cab to the hospital. It was an extravagance but she didn't want to waste time with the bus.

She raced into the emergency room and saw Luke standing in the center of the waiting area. He looked pale white and very frightened.

Claire had fire in her eyes but first she asked him, "Is he all right? I want to see him."

Luke appeared to be in shock. He stammered a bit before answering, "He just went in about ten minutes ago. I haven't heard anything yet. He wasn't breathing when they…"

At his words Claire lunged at him and began beating his chest and shoulders with her fists.

"Are you the one that's been giving him the drugs?" she charged. "How could you do this to us? We were moving past this!"

Luke tried to grab hold of Claire's arms to calm her. "Claire, it wasn't me. I didn't know he was still using the painkillers. He must have taken the speed from my coat."

"How did he know you had it?" she accused.

Luke sighed. "Because I gave it to him. But he'd stopped. I didn't know he took them together tonight. I wouldn't have let him, I swear. Look, I like Charlie, but more than that, killing your client is just bad business."

With one final frustrated slap for good measure, Claire turned away from Luke and went off in search of a nurse who could tell her about Charlie's condition.

He was resuscitated but it would be several more hours until Charlie was lucid enough to talk to her. Luke left as soon as he learned that Charlie was alive and would recover. Claire called her neighbour and asked if Aaron could stay the night and she would pick him up in the morning. Then she sat by Charlie's bedside and dozed in the late hours until he awoke.

She woke to check the clock and saw Charlie stir. Claire sat on the edge of the bed and took his hand.

Charlie opened his eyes, voice groggy. "What am I doing here?"

"A near lethal combination of drugs, alcohol and exhaustion I'm afraid," said Claire. "What do you remember?"

Charlie closed his eyes again and thought. "I was playing. The show ended and I walked offstage, after that nothing."

"You collapsed," said Claire. "Your heart stopped. You nearly died, Charlie."

He nodded but said nothing.

She dropped his hand and spoke again when she realized that was all she was going to get. "You told me you had stopped taking the Percocet. You never even mentioned the speed that you had been using for weeks. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't leave you."

Charlie's face filled with fear as his mind scrambled for a way out. He stammered, "I, I thought I could handle it."

His response only made Claire angrier, "You thought you could handle the drugs?"

"No!" he said with all his strength. "Not the drugs. I was working day and night. I wanted to provide for you. I thought I could handle it, but it was just so hard."

Claire sighed and took his hand again. She felt Charlie squeeze tightly. "Why didn't you tell me it was so hard? I could have helped you."

"I didn't see how," he replied, tears forming. "You needed to be with Aaron. We couldn't afford a sitter. I wanted to give us a better life. I thought I could do it myself, but I can't. I can't make it without you."

Charlie broke down and cried at her side. "Don't leave me Claire," he sobbed. "I can't make it without you."

She wiped her own tears as she held him until he quieted down. Then she gathered her resolve and said, "I want you to quit your job at the warehouse."

Charlie looked confused. "How can I? What will we do?"

"You leave that to me," she said firmly. "If you really want a career as a musician you need to devote yourself to it completely. Take it seriously. Let me worry about the rest for a while."

When Claire went home that day the first thing she did after collecting Aaron was call the lawyer in charge of the airline settlement. She explained the situation and discovered that an advance was available to her for a small fee. She signed over the payment to her lawyer and he had a cheque in the mail to her and Charlie the next day.

By the time Charlie was released from the hospital a few days later the money had arrived. Even with the lawyer's fees taken out it was more money than she had seen in her life. It was enough to enable them to put a deposit down on a nicer apartment, pay for their own health insurance and finally have some savings.

Charlie stayed home during the day, wrote music and watched Aaron, while Claire went to work. In the mornings she was a teacher's assistant at a preschool and in the afternoons she attended the local community college taking classes towards a teacher's certificate. It felt wonderful being a student again, and Claire was happy. Charlie loved the time he got to spend with Aaron, hoping one day the boy's "Chorry" might be replaced by "Daddy."

At night, Charlie continued to get better bookings until finally, based on the wealth of material he had written, he was offered a recording deal. They weren't rich yet, but their lives were improving.

And Charlie finally had enough put away to buy Claire a ring.


End file.
